


A Hundred and One

by MechanicalMomo



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, F/M, How Do I Tag, I have no idea how old they were in the movies, Pietro like-a the ladies, Pre-Hydra, Pre-Movie, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, but loves his Wanda, i am so sorry guys, maxicest, so I guess it could be considered underage, though no intercourse takes place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:03:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4210806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MechanicalMomo/pseuds/MechanicalMomo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've been through this before, and they'll go through it again, but that doesn't make it any easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hundred and One

**Author's Note:**

> Just a reminder that there be brother-sister incest here. I didn't go into the movie planning to ship them, but here I am.

The sound of the door scraping along the floor on uneven hinges wakes her, and the clatter and rummaging coming from the tiny kitchen has her pulling the threadbare blanket over her head, the disgruntled feeling from the day before returning full-force. The noise eventually forces her from her bed, and she washes up and dresses sluggishly, reluctant to face the day though it must be late morning or early afternoon by now. A nagging voice in the back of her mind scolds her for her pettiness, so she inhales deeply and follows the source of the racket.

"There you are!" He greets her cheerfully from where he sits at their poor excuse of a table, grinning as she drags herself into the cramped kitchen. "I thought I was going to have to pull you out of bed myself!"

"I was tired," she retorted a bit shortly, passing him on her way to the small sink with its small pile of chipped, mismatched dishes. "Though probably not as much as you," she adds disdainfully as she eyes his dirty, bedraggled brown hair and his rumpled, day-old clothes, but all he does is bark out a laugh, stuffing the last bite of cold chicken in his mouth before attacking the browning slices of apple left on his plate.

"It is true, I had a much later night than you, little sister," he replies with a cheeky smile. "Serious Wanda, I always tell you you should have more fun!"

"And childish Pietro should have less," she sniffs, filling the sink with water that never really warms.

"Well, Elena came home on holiday from school, it's only fitting she throw a party and invite all her old friends. What else could I do but enjoy myself?"

"Well you certainly seemed to," she muttered as she washed, letting her dark hair hang in a thick, heavy curtain around her face. 

"And you," he admonishes like he didn't hear, rocking backwards on the chair's short, uneven legs carelessly. "You weren't very polite, hm? I know the two of you never got along, but you should let old childhood grudges go." He cocks his head slightly, considering. "Though I cannot say much; I never liked her either."

"You seemed to like her well enough yesterday," she bites off waspishly, scrubbing at a little blue bowl determindly to avoid his gaze.

"Yes, yes, of course I liked Elena yesterday," he exclaims in exasperation, his palm smacking the rough wooden table with a dull thud as his chair falls forward again. The cup in her hand slips back into the water with a splash as she jumps at his outburst. "And Laura the other day, I liked her too. And Svettie last week, and Therese before her, and Francesca before her, and Mary and Annette and Victoria and Christine and many others, yes, yes I like them; I like them...for a while. I like them, and they like me, for the day, for the night. I like them, but that is because I cannot love them, you see? I cannot love them, because I only love Wanda, all day, every day, and at night too only Wanda. They don't like it because I don't talk to them, whisper in their ears, because if I did I should only say 'Wanda, Wanda', and would that be fair to them? Is it fair to them to know that they mean nothing? No one should know they mean nothing, even if there is already someone else who means everything."

Her astonished expression and wide, guileless eyes are enough to soften his tone, and his irritation drains away to apologetic gentleness as he takes her hand and pulls her to him. He kisses the pale, slender palm lingeringly, murmuring into the skin roughened by their comfortless existence. "Do you understand, little sister? Precious Wanda, who comes before all others? I can go with them where I cannot go with you, and they make it easier for a while. But it doesn't last for long, because it is always here, burning away, and so I must go to them, sate it for a little while longer, until I need to go back again. So do not rail at me, sister, for this, for having to give this body what it wants while denying my soul what it needs, I am caused enough hurt without your disappointment."

"Oh Pietro," she sighs, her eyes sad. "Do not mistake my jealousies for disappointment; you have committed no fault. But it is not easy for me to accept that someone, many someones, know a part of you that I do not. There is no part of Pietro, inside or out, that I do not know, except this one; why should they have what I cannot? Why should their bodies feel and taste and see what mine never will?" Her hands grip the folds of her worn yellow dress, run over her curves, palm at her small, full breasts, and his darkening eyes follow their movement. "This body hungers the same as yours; how could it not, for we are Pietro and Wanda, and one is the other, yet I cannot fulfill this body's wants even though it burns the same. There is no one to dull the ache for me, no one for me to go to in the night who will know that part of me, no one-"

"Stop, stop!" And Pietro is wild-eyed, fists clenched and body tense. His breath is shallow and his face is flushed, and there is anger, she can see it in his face, but moreover she can feel the intense effort it takes to restrain himself, to hold himself back.

"Pietro-"

The rickety old chair groans in protest as it scrapes along the wooden planks they cannot walk barefoot on for fear of splinters, and his back is to her, spine rigid and shoulders hunched. "Do not...please do not talk of...I cannot think of someone touching you who is not me, I cannot...Wanda, Wanda, it isn't fair, how you bear this every time, when I cannot handle even the thought of someone's hands in your hair, of someone's lips on your skin..." He flinches slightly at her hand on his shoulder but he turns and pulls her close, burying his nose in her hair as his arms snake tight around her waist. He dispairs in how thin she is every time he holds her, anguishes over his inability to give her more, give her the life she deserves, but even moreso he hates that she is the stong one, that she has to be, because he is not, cannot.

"I would spare you all this," he mumbles quietly, holding her to him and willing their bodies to be one again. "I would give you this part of me to know, I would-"

And it's a conversation they have had a hundred times before, one she knows they will have a hundred times more, so she simply holds him, memorizes again his hands pressing searingly into her skin through her dress, relishes again the feel of his thumbs caressing the curve of her waist, delights again in the desperate, possessive press of his fingers into her hips. His breathing is ragged against the skin of her neck and she knows he wants her in the way he breathes in her scent, in the way he slots their legs together, in the way he trembles as his hips mold to hers, and it is too much and not enough and just right; it is them, as they have always been, will always be.

Tonight he will do his penance as he has done a hundred times before, kneeling at the shrine of her bedside. His eyes will be reverent as she pleases herself, only fluttering shut when he breathes in her muskiness, sweeter than church incense. 

He will listen to his name fall from her lips like a prayer, and it will be a punishment as well as absolution as he cries tears of frustration and gratitude. 

He will receive communion when she offers up her fingers and the taste of her release hits his tongue, and no body, no blood, no bread, and no wine, will ever be as pure.

He will be guilty of the sin of Gluttony as he laves in vain for every last drop; of Pride as he revels in the knowing that he alone knows the taste of her, rich and potent like wine in the grail; of Greed as he scrambles atop her alter and desperately noses his way to her still-brimming font for another taste, a heady baptism; of Lust as he takes himself in hand and mouths at the pale, sweat-salted skin of her thighs; but he will not repent, because she alone is his grace, and her beatific smile as he comes with her scent in his nose and her taste is his mouth will cleanse him in a way no confessional ever will.

They will never go further-even he in all of his festering skepticism would not dare-so they tell themselves this is enough, that this has to be enough. Finally coming to rest side by side, hands clasped and eyes fluttering closed, like they always have, from the womb to the streets to the grave, they drift off to sleep to the rhythm of their tandem heartbeats and matched breaths.

It is enough.


End file.
